


Raw Sienna

by GreyFinch



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Artist!McCree, Fluff, M/M, McHanzo Week, Muse!Hanzo, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-17 04:13:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11267712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyFinch/pseuds/GreyFinch
Summary: Alternate Universe: Struggling artist McCree has lost his inspiration, but finds a new muse in Hanzo. Written as a companion piece for my McHanzo Week fanart. May end up being 3 or 4 chapters long! (I don't know if this counts as slow burn but they'll get there I promise).





	1. Burnt Umber

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting a fanfic on here! I hope you enjoy it! \o/

The light drizzle of rain against the windowpane was just enough to muffle the ambient noise of the bustling city below. It was gray and dreary on the other side of the glass, but within McCree’s studio that gloom seemed like a very distant thing. Inside it was warm and dimly lit by the modest fireplace and scattering of mismatched lamps across the room. The smell of incense burning mingled with his cigarillos, and in a studio as cramped as his (McCree had used the word _cozy_ , but that was very generous of him) the smoke lingered in the air above their heads. If Hanzo concentrated, he could hear the vague suggestion of a piano coming from underneath them. Either someone who shared the tenement was a pianist or had a very impressive record player. 

The scruffy artist apologized for the mess and tried to pick up a bit as if he hadn’t been expecting him. As if he hadn’t chased him down at the train station earlier that same day, breathless from breaching the platform. As if he hadn’t begged him to come to his studio later so he could paint him. Never in all of Hanzo’s years on this earth had he received such an odd request from a complete stranger, but the man’s eagerness and tenacity had been difficult to refuse. There was something charismatic about the way he spoke, which made even a natural born skeptic such as Hanzo soften to his plea. After receiving a very clumsy introduction followed by a spirited speech, he finally agreed to meet him around eight. 

He had given McCree an approximate time, so really there was no excuse for the mess. 

The artist offered to take his coat, which Hanzo was reluctant to give him at first but eventually slid off his shoulders and passed to him. He was surprised to watch him handle it with care and hang it up very meticulously on the coat rack by the door. It was more consideration than he’d shown his own garments, to be sure. They were strewn across the floor, draped on furniture and even abandoned under blank canvases. Who in the world could live like this?

The artist’s voice brought him back from his disdainful thoughts. 

“Would you like some coffee or anythin’ before you get dressed?”

Hanzo raised a brow in honest confusion. 

“Dressed?”

The painter nodded and pulled a hanger from the same rack. On it was a pale blue silk robe that on an adult man of his height may reach mid-thigh. Hanzo regarded it critically and even lifted a hand to push aside the lapel of the robe. There was nothing underneath. It was just that: a robe. 

“It seems I have made a mistake coming here. Good day to you.”

As he reached for his coat he felt the artist’s hand on his shoulder to still him. 

“Woah, wait! Hold up, don’t-- don’t go.”

In his haste the man hung up the robe and nearly bumped the coat rack over, but he did effectively have Hanzo’s attention now. McCree held up his hands to show that they were empty, as if this might reassure him. They were covered in various smears, charcoal or graphite on the heel of his palms and flecks of color at the fingertips of both hands. 

“You don’t have to, you don’t have to wear anythin’ you don’t want.”

Hanzo was surprised to see him so flustered. His expression must have shown this, because the artist continued on with a brief explanation. 

“The professionals wear these when they come in-- I’m real sorry, I shouldn’t’ve assumed that you’d be comfortable with that. I’ll make it a bust, just from here up.” 

He gestured to Hanzo’s collar bones and held his hands up as if they were the corners of a canvas to look at him through the space between. A moment or two passed before Hanzo sighed heavily and set down his briefcase. Well, he was already here. 

“Very well. I take my tea without milk or sugar.”

\--

The music from the piano ceased an hour or two after he had arrived, and the storm had only progressed since then. It was now more of a dull roar than a drizzle outside, to Hanzo’s dismay. If he had just refused this ridiculous request in the first place, he could have gone home without the trouble of braving a veritable downpour. As he sat there thinking of this, the artist seated across from him spoke up.

“You need a break, sweetheart?”

 _Sweetheart_?

“No.”

“Y’sure? Looks like you're uncomfortable.”

The man had not placed him in a particularly difficult pose. McCree had instructed him to sit comfortably and asked politely if he could touch him just to turn his head where he wished it to be. He did have to hand it to the painter, he was very respectful and seemed receptive to the fact that he was not one of his professional models. 

“I am perfectly comfortable. I was just thinking.”

“Ah.” 

They fell into silence again, save for the scratches of McCree's chosen instrument against paper and the pitter-patter of rain outside. A few more minutes passed and McCree shifted the cigarillo in his mouth from one side to the other. 

“Tell me about yourself.”

“Why?”

The artist looked so taken aback by the question that he stopped drawing and lifted his eyes to Hanzo's. There was a beat of time when neither said anything before he laughed. It was loud, but good natured and genuine.

“Hell, why does anyone ask that? I wanna get to know you a little-”

“Will it help you paint faster?”

This comment brought the mood right back down, and the artist went back to his work without comment. Hanzo hadn't meant to make the smile vanish from this man's face so quickly, but he had not agreed to this request just so they could sit and chat. Once McCree was done with his painting, he fully intended to be on his way and never look back. But even he, a goal-oriented individual with fewer interpersonal skills than most, could not bear the awkward silence that followed for much longer knowing that he had caused it.

“...My name is Hanzo Shimada. What else would you like to know?”

The man did not look up from his paper, although he could see the faintest suggestion of a smile at the corners of his lips. 

“What’s your trade, Mr. Shimada?”

“I am the president of my family business. I own an import and export company.”

McCree looked up, lowering the pad of paper with his eyebrows nearly meeting his hairline. 

“Really? _President_? You don't seem… old enough.”

“My father died when I was young. I am the oldest heir.”

“Oh… I'm real sorry about that.”

Hanzo shook his head and McCree went back to his work. It was a few more minutes before the artist spoke again.

“Is it somethin’ you enjoy at least?”

“It is something that puts food on the table.”

The painter scoffed.

“That ain't no way to live your life.”

“But living in squalor with no financial security is?”

Once again he'd made the man across from him frown. He seemed to have a talent for it. He did not believe what he'd said to be false, but perhaps he had been a little too curt. He cleared his throat. Even though the painter hadn't replied, he thought he should speak up again to relieve the tension.

“...I did not mean any insult.”

“You meant what you said. It's all right, don't worry about it. Not like it's the first time I've heard that.”

“Yes, but I should not have been so rude. I am sorry.”

McCree chuckled softly to show there were no hard feelings and stood from his stool. Did that mean he was finished? Hanzo watched him approach and looked down when the artist showed him his sketchbook.

“What do you think?”

He was invited to hold it, which he did carefully. In the hour or two that had passed, McCree had laid a beautiful portrait to paper. The line work started bold and vague but became refined and delicate around his features. The colors he'd chosen we're not possibly ones he could have observed; it was a creative palate that must have come from his own imagination and understanding of color theory. His expression was soft, and even though Hanzo had been there posing for this very same picture, he could not tell what _this_ Hanzo was thinking. It was very complex.

“It is remarkable... far more interesting than your model, to be sure. But what medium is this?”

“Hm? It’s pastel.”

“I thought you wanted to paint me?”

“Well, I figured I would warm up with a few sketches an’ go from there. I thought maybe next time--”

“Mr. McCree. If I gave you the wrong impression, then I apologize. However, there is not going to be a next time.”

He stood from his stool and handed the sketchbook back to the artist, who looked crestfallen to hear this. 

“But I--”

“I do not have time to make this a daily ritual. I hope you enjoy your sketch, because I will not be returning.”

Hanzo was already collecting his coat from the rack and had opened the door when McCree found his words. 

“Wait-- I want you to have it!”

He paused in the doorway and turned to see the artist skid to a stop next to him. He grabbed a pen from behind his ear, scrawled his signature quickly as if he were worried Hanzo might disappear before he could finish. He tore the thick paper from his book and presented it to the businessman. Hanzo stared up at the man’s face while he took it, not looking away. 

“You are giving it to me?”

“Yeah.”

“...Why?”

The artist returned the pen behind his ear. 

“You want the truth?”

“I would not ask if I did not.”

McCree chuckled and folded his arms across his broad chest. He too seemed interested only in locking eyes with him, and it was almost embarrassing to hold his gaze when there was such a passion there. He had a disarmingly kind smile that complimented his otherwise shabby appearance well.

“If I keep it, it’ll just make me sad. Had I known I only had the one chance, I would’ve done somethin’ far more impressive than just this. Consider it an apology for wastin’ your time. Please.” 

Although the words could have been said in bitterness, Hanzo didn’t detect any of that from McCree. The artist smiled at him still, but it was melancholy and did not quite meet his eyes. He placed the sketch carefully in his briefcase and put on his coat, all in silence. 

“Well… thank you. Good night, Mr. McCree.”

“Good night, Mr. Shimada.”

Before he made it down the hall he heard the artist’s voice call out to him once more. 

“By the way-- I disagree. That sketch ain’t even half as remarkable as the model.”

When Hanzo turned around, the door was closed. He stared at it in silent shock, processing what he’d just heard. In fact, he continued to process that simple statement the entire way back to his home across town. 

\---

Hanzo’s day was very methodical. He took the train in the early morning from the residential area to the port. He put in his time at work, where his eight hour days were more like fourteen. He caught the last train home and returned to his house alone. He cooked up a meal for one, ate in silence, read if he was not too tired, and went to sleep. This was the normal routine, one he had done since he had moved to this town to establish this branch of Shimada Logistics. 

However, there was one small detail that had recently been added to this. Just before bed, Hanzo would take a look at the sketch he’d been gifted and think back on that night at McCree’s studio. As each night passed, he would spend a little more time thinking about it. Soon, it was on his mind during his lunch as well. By the end of a full week, he was recalling that night on the train to and from work as well. 

There were just so many unanswered questions. Why had he wanted to paint _him_ so badly? He was not all that attractive in his own eyes. His hair was starting to gray at his temples, and his eyes were stern and showed signs of tire even when he was fully rested. He was fit, but underneath a suit none would be the wiser if he weren’t. His posture was decent, but he was shorter than the average man in this town. So why had he called him remarkable? Was it in jest?

Whatever the answer was, he could not deny that he felt a bit curious as well. What would McCree have painted if he’d had the chance? Through the mundane pattern of his days, the man’s words echoed in his head. “That ain't no way to live your life”. Every time he scheduled a meeting, every time he caught the last train with only two other passengers in the car, and every time he stared into his bowl of soup at midnight, he heard his voice and his frown grew longer. 

It took Hanzo eight days to cave to this curiosity and finally knock at McCree’s door. When the artist answered, his expression transformed from irritance to surprise and delight in moments. 

“Oh-- Mr. Shimada!”

“Mr. McCree.”

Hanzo reached into his breast pocket to retrieve a small square of paper, meticulously folded. He held it out to the artist who took it with a curious expression. 

“My measurements. If you do not have a robe in this size, I suggest you buy one.”


	2. Raw Umber

McCree knew better than anyone that inspiration was not what paid the bills. Accepting every job (no matter how small or uninteresting the project was) paid the bills. Working late nights until his hands ached to make his deadlines paid the bills. Word of mouth paid the bills. _Reputation_ paid the bills. Being an artist by profession meant playing a very specific game, one that McCree considered himself adept at. He knew which hands to shake and who to rub elbows with to get his paintings on the walls of the next highfalutin art show. It was stressful at times, but humans were very capable creatures when their dinners depended on it. 

Inspiration was fickle and played a very, very small part in that.

It was a nice thing to have around. Sometimes it would show up while he was admiring the warmth and fluidity of the twilit sky in comparison to the cool tones and rigidity of the architecture around him. Or it might come to him while he listened in on that talented Brazilian boy a floor below him flesh out his newest song on the piano. There were even times when he woke up with it, fresh from a pleasant dream with the remnants still stirring in his groggy mind. Each time it struck him he would do the same thing; drop whatever he was doing and paint.

To say that inspiration was useless was certainly not his sentiment. No, it was a luxury that he could afford to go without, but made his life more wholesome when he had it. It put a light in his eyes, a purpose behind his strokes and eventually a genuine pride in his work. When he would look upon his painting of a cityscape at dusk or gesture drawing of a musician hunched over his piano, he could confidently say to himself: This is why I do this for a living. This choice was not a mistake.

Yet as he grew older it seemed that those bursts of inspiration grew fewer and farther between. Nothing caught his attention, nothing engaged him. His days became routine and his paintings felt bland. Forced. Uncreative. He started discarding more and more things, leaving works half finished and forgotten. He put his brush to canvas only to put food on his table, and grew frustrated more often when he could not accurately put what was in his mind’s eye to paper. As long as it was finished on time, his clients didn’t seem to care. But he did.

He was in this rut for years. As time passed, he slowly realized that just paying the bills wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. That spark that once compelled him to stop everything and indulge in his craft was missing, and at this point he may as well have been working in a factory churning out some product he felt no love for. 

He had to get that spark back. 

He took to traveling. Just day trips at first, as that was really all he could afford. But whenever he sold a new painting he could afford to stay a night in a new town. He’d meet new people, drink with the locals, and smoke as he watched the sunrise from a hotel balcony with a near stranger still asleep in the bedroom. It was fulfilling in some ways, but not in the way he was hoping. During all of his travelling, he never got that motivation back. 

It was on a fortuitous return trip home that he found it.

On that day, his eyes had been drawn to the window of the train car. The locomotive pulled into the station while he scanned the platform that passed him by, taking a vague interest in the sorts of people he saw. Families gathered to greet the arrival of loved ones. Men and women who stood arm and arm with luggage by their side, most likely looking forward to a romantic getaway. Those of the working class clustered in groups as was their morning tradition, sharing small talk and cigarettes. He lowered his eyes back to his sketch of the countryside. He didn’t really fit into any of those categories, did he? He tapped the pad of paper with his pen while he waited.

Perhaps it was fate that tempted him to look up to the window a second time. The train came to a stop, gears grinding and steam exhaling in a low whistle outside, and once it did he straightened up to stretch. A man on the platform beside him passed right by his window, and he would have missed him had a reckless child not bumped into him. McCree leaned against the window to watch the scenario from his seat. The girl apologized and took off almost immediately, but the man paused and turned his head to watch her run, indirectly giving McCree a second chance to look at him. 

Their eyes met through the glass. His widened. 

Sometimes inspiration comes when one least expects it. Sometimes it comes in strange forms, whether it is a song, a natural phenomena, a dream, or a person. A beautiful person with stern features but captivating eyes. And, just like in any other situation when he felt that inspiration strike him hard, he had one thought: _I have to paint him_.

When the stranger looked away, he felt as if a spell had been broken. The events immediately following were a blur. He could recall throwing his things together and pushing through the crowd to be the first off the train. After that, he’d parted through a sea of people to try and find the man outside the window. Once he spotted him across the platform, he had run to catch up before he could depart. 

The words he’d blurted out to get his attention had been slapped together and haphazard, carried along on a breathless voice. He couldn’t blame the stranger for staring at him like he were some sort of madman, but eventually he found his breath and his charm and spoke up with a bit more confidence. He’d given him a calling card, described who he was and what he did, and even whipped out his pocket sketchbook to show him a few examples as proof. The stranger had been skeptical the whole time and even started to leave twice before McCree had eventually whittled him down: 

“Wait-- it won’t take long, I promise! You name the time--”

“No, I am sorry. I think you have found the wrong person, I am no model.”

“A damn shame, really.”

“What?”

“Just give me an hour, that’s all. One hour. Please.”

It was around that time with McCree halfway inside the train, ready to buy another damn ticket if need be, that the man finally consented to pose for him. He hopped off just as an attendant came into the compartment to take tickets and lingered on the platform to watch the train depart. At the time he had felt optimistic. He didn’t have a name or a calling card to contact the man, but he had a promise from him, and that was good enough. 

\--

Jesse McCree leaned against the rain-speckled window as he watched his muse disappear down the street below. He had a name now, but no promise to return. Quite the opposite. He’d kept Hanzo for two hours and thirty six minutes, and had he known that his declaration at the train station would be taken so strictly he might have monitored his words more carefully. One hour was not a lot of time, especially when he’d spent the first half of it fussing and trying to choose a medium and a color palate. But it was apparent now that Hanzo Shimada was a man who valued his schedule and his time very seriously. 

If only he had known. He would have made better use of his two hours and thirty six minutes.

The next day, he was fortunate enough to receive a guest to distract him. She was an entrepreneur, soon to be the owner of a new tobacco shop across the street from the local cafe. Her goal was to attract a client base from some of the regulars there with an eye-catching advert, which she described in vague detail to McCree. She used a handful of adjectives: alluring, sultry, unorthodox.

Accepting every job, no matter how small or uninteresting, paid the bills. He took down the details and promised to have it by the end of the month. Although his mood was a bit low, this was actually a blessing in disguise. Busying his hands with a job was a decent distraction, and as long as he kept his mind on his work he’d forget all about the muse that got away. 

He scheduled models. He took frequent walks. He stationed himself in cafes or public parks, sketching anything that reminded him of those three words. After a week’s passing he had a few drafts to offer, but when his client returned she didn’t seem entirely satisfied. Her explanation surprised him.  
“I came to you because I wanted a McCree piece, you know? These are _nice_ , but they aren’t really what I asked for.”

How very blunt. McCree struck a match and lit a fresh cigarillo, one that his client had so generously offered him. They shared a smoke in his studio while looking at the three rough drafts, his client seated upon a messy couch while he stood by the table. 

“What’re you talkin’ about? Allurin’, sultry, unorthodox right?” He ticked off the adjectives on his fingers. “I got some of all three here.”

The seated woman picked up one of the drafts. She was short, with a healthy bronze complexion and a hint of an accent which made him suspect she may have been originally from out of town like him. Her hair was parted to one side and halfway slicked back in a very modern fashion he had not seen many women wear. She had a tone of voice and glint in her eyes that showed she meant business, and while that was something McCree appreciated, it did make it harder to deliver.

“Well, let’s start with this one. This is just a picture of some buildings. Think about it, a picture of buildings on a building in the middle of more buildings. Does that sound eye-catching? I hate the colors in this middle one, it’s too bland and doesn’t really draw my attention at all. This last one is nice, but it’s too similar to that one I’ve seen around for that champagne. It’s not very original or unorthodox.”

“I could change the model out. That composition delivers on two of your requests. She’s sultry an’ definitely allurin’.”

“But it’s just too _obvious_ , you know? What makes it different from any other model holding a product?”

McCree puffed a cloud of smoke and folded his arms across his chest. It sounded a bit like this client just didn’t know what she wanted, which was not an unfamiliar situation for him. 

“You’re really gonna make me work for this money, aren’t you darlin’?” He said with a chuckle. She met it with a little curl of a smile. 

“Absolutely. I want my money’s worth after all.” 

“Can’t blame ya for that.”

“I’ll be back later this week,” she declared, rising to her feet. “Hopefully you’ll have something more interesting to show me?”

McCree walked her to the door, but once she was gone the pleasant facade slipped right off his face. What the hell did she want from him, then? _A McCree piece_? All three of those were something he’d be happy to put his name on. He paced the flat for a while before he received another caller at the door. Either the landlady had come to collect his rent or perhaps his client had forgotten something. He opened the door with a bit of a scowl, but that melted away into delighted surprise as soon as he laid eyes upon his visitor. 

“Oh-- Mr. Shimada!”

“Mr. McCree. My measurements. If you do not have a robe in this size, I suggest you buy one.”

He stared down at the paper he’d been handed as if it were something precious. This was so unexpected that it took him a moment to process what was happening. After a lapse of silence he realized it was rude to keep his guest waiting in the hallway, so he ushered him in and closed the door behind him. 

“Pretty sure I’ve got somethin’ that’ll work for ya. So you changed your mind?” He said with a little grin as he pocketed the slip of paper. 

“Why else would I be here?”

The man caught a glimpse of the three works on the coffee table and moved towards them. He picked one up and studied it.

“Am I interrupting?”

“No, not at all, my client just left. You’re right on time, y’know before you showed up I was havin’ a real lousy--”

“These are nice.”

McCree went to Hanzo’s side and mused for him to make himself comfortable. The man handed over his coat and took a seat on the couch, studying the piece he’d picked up. McCree busied himself getting a pot of tea started; no cream or sugar, if he recalled correctly.

“Heh, glad someone thinks so. You can have ‘em, she didn’t like any of ‘em.”

“That is unfortunate. How much do you want for them?”

“What? No, I’m _givin’_ ‘em to you.”

Hanzo lifted a brow quizzically while Jesse set the pot of tea on the table. He helped himself to his half-finished cup of coffee, which had gone cold from neglect in a chilly room.

“You are too quick to give away your work. You should place more value in what you do.”

“I just don’t like holdin’ onto things that make me sad.”

“Like mine.”

McCree stubbed out his cigarillo as he took a seat in a beat up armchair, the upholstery of which did not match the adjacent couch. 

“Like yours.”

He studied Hanzo over the rim of his coffee cup as subtly as he could. It was a Sunday, and yet he was still dressed as if he expected to be called into work. A fine suit that was pressed and pristine, impeccably straight black hair drawn into a low tail at the base of his neck. Strong cheekbones, an aquiline nose, a meticulously trimmed beard with the same salt-and-pepper coloring as the hair around his temples. A little voice in his head chimed in while he pondered whether that fragrance was lavender or bergamot he smelled on him:

_This is not just inspiration, Jesse._

Hanzo was looking at him. He blinked and set down his coffee. 

“I’m sorry darlin’, what’d you say?”

The man across from him frowned, whether it was from his lack of attention or the casual use of an affectionate phrase he couldn’t say.

“I said, would you like me to change? I understand that it was presumptuous of me to show up without notice. If you have no plans to paint tonight, I will not overstay my welcome.”

“Oh no no-- stay, sweetheart. Even if I didn’t have plans to paint I’d make ‘em just for you.” 

The other man turned a curious shade of pink underneath his quizzical frown. McCree left him to process this while he fetched a robe that would fit him.


End file.
